Tides of Change
by WhereNoFanHasGoneBefore
Summary: AU. In a pseudo-victorian era, Maka Albarn is a bright young woman with dreams of her own; but when Japanese bombs fall on her beloved city, her comfortable life is suddenly shattered and hurtled down a path of hardship and uncertainty. Through it all she finds love, courage, and a resilience she never knew she had. SoMa, KiMa, TsuBa
1. A Mid-Summer Evening's Ball

disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater and I'm not making any money off this

**2/17/14- chapter completely re-written!**

**A/N: The idea for this story was inspired by my love of historical fiction and my awesome beta reader KirstyKakes!**

**Please enjoy and it would mean a lot if you could leave a review!**

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_Every single thing changes and is changing always in this world. Yet with the same light the moon goes on shining. ~Saigyo_

Outside, the streets echo with the sounds of clopping hooves and clattering of carriage wheels. I clutch the rim of the window to stay as steady as possible, but headache and nausea, partly from my constricting garments, and partly from motion sickness, still overcomes me.

Across from me sits my grandmother, gazing out the window with a look of utter contempt. With a back as straight and tall as an iron rod, and gloves hands folded gracefully in her lap, she is the very embodiment of a high-class woman. I try to straighten my own shoulders before she notices, but I believe it's futile as my knees keep bumping hers despite how much I try to tuck my legs.

I glance at my Papa, whom is sitting beside me. Despite being cramped together in this cabin, he appears delighted. He wears a new tuxedo and has his normally shaggy hair slicked back neatly. It's been quite some time since I have seen him so cleaned up that I am almost pleased to be his daughter.

A sway of nausea has me clinging to the window again. As for me, I am a rather plain girl with a taste for more practical things. Unfortunately, right now, my waist is unforgivingly bounded by a corset with metal ribs and weighed down with a series of hoops secured to my hips. I have the illusion of feminine curves that I have yet to develop. With layers of fabric, powdered cheeks, and hair piled high on top of my head, I feel like I have been crammed into the ideal woman; a space that's busting at the seams, with little vacancy to breathe, and especially no capacity for books.

We ride in complacent silence until we suddenly hit a fissure in the road and are jolted upward. It wasn't as bad as the one we had hit earlier, but with my Gran not as strong as she used to be, struggled to regain composure. I immediately reached out to her, and let her use my strength to push herself back into her seat. Though, instead of releasing my hands, she tightens her grip and turns my palms up.

"Maka, where are your gloves?" Her voice is thick with disdain.

I prepare myself for the worst and smile sheepishly. "Ah, I must've forgotten. I'm sorry Gran." That is if 'forgotten' meant purposely leaving the gloves behind because I couldn't stand the lack of a proper grip.

Her eyes crinkle with exasperation as she huffs heavily. "Forgotten? This is a white-glove event!" She scolds.

"Calm down Mother," Papa intervened, as he often does. "Look how you've done her all up. Look at this!" He playfully tugs at one of my ringlets. "Everyone will be so distracted by her beauty no one will notice the gloves." He smiles and winks at me, but I'm unmoved.

"Sent to a private school, top of her class," she went on, as if Papa had never spoken. "You think you're brilliant, but you're not. Irresponsible is what you are," She criticizes.

Scolding like this comes daily, so I'm not hurt by Gran's harsh words. However, I am annoyed. I bite my tongue and begin my usual string of apologies until she's satisfied and the cabin is silent again.

The moon has yet to rise, but I can already tell that it will be an awfully long evening.

* * *

We finally arrive at the town square pavilion. Papa is of course eager to mingle, and he soon blends into the crowd. Gran sits among friends and acquaintances, chattering away and fanning themselves with delicate feather-adorned fans.

Meanwhile, I idly watch as the marble hall slowly comes to life. Girls gracefully float through the doors, with bright beautiful gowns hooped out so tremendously, it made my hoops look slender and meek in comparison. Lace shawls hang carelessly from bare arms as they fan out across the hall, their masses of curls bouncing with each step. Gentlemen arrive as well, smartly dressed in dapper suits and top hats, their heads tilted back with saucy pride.

Soon the hall is brimming with light-hearted merriment and airy cries of greeting. I stand a distance from the clamoring, idly watching and examining every powdery face, searching for the ones I might recognize from class. It isn't easy, for each painted face looks identical to the last.

An echoing rap has the entire hall silenced and turning to face the platform like sheep with engrossed interest. Musicians all clad in black had assumed their stations and waited with rapt attention as the conductor stands poised with his long bow raised high. Then with a swift drop of the bow the Orchestra broke into a rendition of_ La Valse_.

One by one, each pretty skirt was approached by a gentleman and whisked away. The dance floor is vibrant with colorful frocks; all floating, spinning, and gliding elegantly past each other. Everyone is so perfectly in-tune that it is as though they were also orchestrated.

It's impossible to catch a recognizable face now with the bustle of the dance. That is, until I spot papa with his arm around a woman I don't recognize, as he ignorantly struts right past me. He whispers something to her and smiles salaciously. She blushes shyly and giggles like a fool. I glare at them, disgusted.

"Stupid Papa," I mutter.

"Oh, Maka!" I was so distracted that I jump at the sudden, familiar voice. My head was whipping back and forth, searching for the source. "Behind you, dum dum!" the person snickers.

Spinning on my heel and nearly tangling myself in the fabrics of my dress in the process; which, could have ended in an utter disaster, I am faced with two of my closest friends.

"Kim!" I chirp with a toothy grin, "Jackie!"

The first was the very distinct Lady Kimberley Diehl. With her vivid strawberry red hair cut straight to the nap of her neck. Dressed in a plain olive green dress that lacked detailing, a corset, and even hoops had Kim sticking out like a sore thumb. And yet, she carried herself with a confident stride. I had to admit, I was envious of her boldness.

The second was the ever lovely Jacqueline Lantern Duprè. She had long brunette locks as dark as a raven's wing, that were twisted in soft ringlets. Unlike Kim, Jackie also donned a corset and hoops to create a more feminine image. Jackie was the "Belle of the Ball" type, that is, if it weren't for her sharp eyes and aloof personality that steered men clear. Only the brave dared to approach her, only to face her sharp tongue that sent them running.

I quickly skip over to them. "So, are you ready for the new term?"

Kim twisted her lips, "Really? Haven't seen you in ages, and the first thing you talk about is school,"

"Saw that one coming," Jackie finished with a cheeky smirk.

I felt my face flush. "Well, education is important!" I argued. "Fine, how was your summer?"

"There, was that so hard?" Kim teases, "But something interesting did happen while I was in London. Guess who I just happened to run into on the streets? Go on, take a guess."

Before I could try, Jackie eagerly intervenes. "Wesley Evans! She saw Wesley Evans and he invited her to the theater!"

Wesley Evans was a tutor and a prince to all the girls at our school, but more than that, he is an old friend of mine I haven't seen in years. Gossip in general doesn't appeal to me, but this time I found myself leaning more towards them in astonishment and curiosity. "Really? What did he say?"

Kim's entire demeanor changes instantly. The impish expression on her face turns soft and she smiles gently. "Well, he was in the company of his colleges, so I'm sure he did it out of courtesy." She says, her cheeks turning slightly pink, "He said he was very happy to see me again, and it would be lovely if I could see him perform in the opera."

"But alas, it never came to be!" Jackie cries theatrically, "Kimmy's boat was that very night."

"Oh, it was awful. I couldn't accept.-" Suddenly, Kim's eyes widened in horror as her face drained of color. She frantically shook Jackie's shoulder with trembling hands.

Their shared expression had my head spinning with confusion, "Wha-what? " My tongue couldn't seem to form the words.

"Sorry Maka, we have to go. See you soon!" Kim quickly waved, before both her and Jackie scooped up their skirts and disappeared into the crowd.

I'm abandoned on the middle of the floor with my bafflement. Just what scared them off?

Swallowing hard, I slowly turned myself around.

And there! Right behind me… was nothing…

I slapped a hand against my face, momentarily forgetting my manners. "You're such a child," I hissed to myself, feeling quite embarrassed. I almost laughed at myself. Fortunately, no one around was paying any mind.

All of a sudden a great big, hairless head, with black horns, and huge eyes jumped out from between the bodies of the passerby's.

I instinctively shriek and covered my face with my arms.

"Ah, what in the world," a young, and nauseatingly familiar, man's voice broke my panic.

Peaking from my arms, I quickly realize this scary, ugly hairless monster was nothing but my academic rival, Ox Ford.

I feel embarrassment slowly creeping up on my face. The crowd had paused around Ox and I, staring in shock at my outburst, and murmuring things like "Is she okay?" and "Is that not Sir Albarn's daughter?" and the most frequent "What a strange girl."

I clench my hands and kept my glowing face down. "Why would you jump out like that?" I snap.

"And why would you react like a banshee?" He retorts.

"I'm not a banshee," I muttered, but it went unheard as Ox continued.

"But if you must know, I was looking for Kimberley and I swore that I saw her in this area."

"Well, I'm afraid you will need to have your eyes checked, Ford. But seeing as how your eyes are ill, I'll explain it for you, Kim isn't around," I mock.

He pauses his search simply to glare at me from behind his thick glasses, "I assure you Albarn, I can see just fine. But thank you for your assistance."

I had assumed that was the end of it, but suddenly his hand was beneath my nose. "Albarn, would you care for a drink?" His words were pretty, but his voice was forced.

"Thank you, but I will have to decline. Perhaps later," as in never.

He sighs exasperatedly, "I insist. I must share a word with you."

I bite my lip unconsciously. I really would rather go back to the boring old salon with gran, or anywhere away from Ox, but it seemed as though he legitimately needed to talk about something quite urgent. So going against my better judgement, I agree.

He hands me a cold glass of cider and I must admit, I'm glad he's offered me a drink. It isn't proper for a lady to pour one for herself, and I was feeling quite parched. The cool liquid soothes my dry scratchy throat.

"It's about Kimberley," he answers the silent question, "I'd like to court her,"

"That's nice," I reply politely although inwardly I cringe. Kim despised Ox probably more than I do. There were many a time that he had embarrassed her by proclaiming his love rather publicly.

"However, she is a fragile creature of such refined beauty. It seems as though no matter how I approach her, I scare her away." I almost laughed. Were we thinking of the same Kim? Kim is the furthest thing from fragility and refinedness. "And so, I need your assistance."

I choked on my drink at this. I begun coughing and wheezing because my cinched waist was making the simplest things so difficult. "What!" I exclaimed once the air had reached my lungs.

"Well, ideally, I would ask Jackie, but she is rather unapproachable. And so, Albarn, you are the next candidate. I propose that we put our rivalry on hold and work together to win the heart of Kimberley Diehl," he explains, as though it were as simple as that.

I almost slap my own face, but I would really like to throw a book at his empty skull. Sucking in a breath, I politely turn to him and say, "Mister Ford, I am afraid that I have to decline for it would be a conflict of interests. However, you are the most knowledgeable of men in our school. Surely you will find a way. I wish you the best of luck." I force a smile and curtsy. I feel rather proud of myself for acting so mature, it's a shame Gran didn't see that.

"Albarn if you do not assist me than I will have no choice but to explain to your friends and your father that you are I are in courtship."

Those words, dripping with threat, froze my core. He wouldn't actually dare, would he? I turn to see the seriousness of his decree is indeed etched deep into his face.

Gone were niceties, gone was maturity, I gather my skirts and furiously close in on him. "That is Blackmail Ford and for who does such an action is considered lower than low. If you continue, I will be forced to take you out. Are you aware of the repercussions?"

"Yes-"

I cut him off.

"Because I don't believe that you are. This is a dangerous game and you are choosing a rather high-class opponent. Mark me and I will ensure that you will never be able to even have a glimpse of Kim, not even a hair on her head, for the rest of your lifetime-"

Surely I'm making a scene again. My voice is rising and people began watching, but I don't care. I'm just so furious.

"Alright, my apologies," He frowns, "I made a mistake."

"Are we clear?" I ask, letting out the steam of my wrath.

"Crystal milady." he answers rather sourly.

"Good. Enjoy your evening." I said with a turn. Polluted from his touch, I wipe my hands on my skirt. "Oh, and Ford," I call over my shoulder, "I'll think about it."

After all, I was a bit too hard on him. That, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stand his sulking.

The ball had reached it's peak and all were gathering themselves on the dance floor with a partner for the Irish Polka. Squeals of glee came from girls who were eager to move themselves and twirl about, showing off their youth and suppleness. Men were also thrilled for the chance to come into contact with the damsel they so admired.

Unlike most, I do not find dancing very fun. It's too tedious and exacting to be enjoyable. So I cling back and observe the excitement from afar. The women skip and shuffle as the men wrap their arms around their waists, and guide them in a circulating movement across the floor.

The atmosphere of the ball evolves from prim and proper to loud and upbeat. Besides noticing papa with another unknown woman, I catch glimpses of classmates and acquaintances who seem to be enjoying themselves. I even see Kim and Jackie, who were audacious enough to be twirling around with each other. As various other couples happily prance around to the rhythm of the folk dance, my eyes fall onto a fair-haired stranger across the hall, leaning against the wall in a similar manner as I.

At first I think nothing of it, but as his eyes suddenly dart back at mine, he begins to look oddly familiar. Strangely, it isn't until I begin to approach him that he scurries out of the hall and into the night.

Even though he exited the building in such a frantic manner, I find him simply sitting atop the front stoop of the pavilion, taking a puff of a cigarette.

He feels my presence but doesn't bother to turn his head. "Sorry miss, I do not like dancing very much." He says flatly.

Even in the dim glow of the street lamps, I can see the color of his hair is pure-white.

I ignore his previous statement. "Pardon me," I ask, "but are you an Evans?"

He exhales a long, black cloud of smoke and turns his head slightly. "Yes. Solomon Evans."

Truthfully, he looks like he wants to be left alone, but curiosity eats away at me. "I'm Maka Albarn."

He stands up suddenly. Was it my name that has gotten his attention? As he faces me, I outline the features of his face. His irises are a deep crimson hue, as if all the color were sucked out of his hair and injected into his eyes. As unique as these qualities are, there is one other person I know who looks exactly like this.

"Albarn, is it? I've heard much about your old man." He grins devilishly, as if he were the only one in all of Death City who knew of my father's antics.

"Yes, I'm sure." I reply coolly. "If you don't mind my asking, are you Wesley's brother?" He has to be. He looks so much like him, I'd think he were his clone if he weren't his sibling.

Without consideration, he takes another puff, then answers simply, "Yes, that's correct."

In appearance, he could pass for his brother's twin. In demeanor, the two couldn't be more different. Wesley is kind, friendly, and as mannerly as any well-bred gentleman can be. Solomon seems aloof and uncaring. In fact, he doesn't seem to mind that his smoking is obviously irritating me. So much so, that I have to cover my mouth and cough.

I quickly regain composure. "I see. Well, if you hear from him, please tell him I said hello." I gather my skirts and prepare to head back inside.

"What is your relationship to my brother, if I may ask?" He asks rashly, sounding curious, more than anything.

I pause. "He used to tutor me when I was young. I haven't seen him in ages."

"Ah. Well, he's in London right now."

"I've heard."

"I think he'll be visiting for Christmas."

That I haven't heard. I find it difficult to contain my elation. "Really? That's wonderful to hear."

The nonchalant expression on his face is suddenly wiped away. His dark eyes glint with amusement.

"You are very fond of him, aren't you?"

My cheeks burn up again for the umpteenth time this evening. "Of course- He taught me well. He was a good tutor."

He chuckles. "Yes, it seems that way. Are you one of his academy girls?"

I fight the urge to raise my voice and say many nasty things a lady should never say. He is, after all, an Evans. But still, what a vile inconsiderate varmint of a man!

Before I can think of a more proper way to retort, he reaches into his jacket for a simple pocket watch on a silver chain. "The band will be taking a recess shortly. Perfect time to make an appearance and avoid dancing."

With that, he now turns and heads for the door. For the second time this evening, I have the urge to sling an encyclopedia at someone's crown. If there was one in sight, I'm sure I would have done it.

"I suppose that means you are no good at dancing." I suddenly snap. "Well good luck with that."

He grins toothily, and crushes his cigarette under his boot, swinging the heavy door open to the entrance. "Lovely to meet you, Miss Albarn." Then he disappears into the hall.

I'm absolutely appalled. How can someone like him be an Evans? Or so closely related to Wesley for that matter?

With my corset biting my ribs and my heels gnawing at my achilles tendon, I'm too distressed to hurry back. I settle myself on the top of the stoop and fold my hoops down. Why does it seem like I'm faced with trouble every where I turn? Maybe it's embedded in my nature. After all, I am my father's daughter.

For the remainder of the evening, I do my best to act calm and reserved, until I can go home and kick off these dratted shoes and hurl this corset far into the depths of my closet.

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	2. Of School Schedules and Shopping Lists

disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater and I'm not making any money off of this

**A/N: Before you start reading, please know I have completely re-written chapter one! So if you read the original and came straight here, I strongly advise that you go back and read the new one, because it is very different!**

**Nevertheless, happy reading! :) and a very special thank you to my beta reader KirstyKakes!**

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Just as quickly as it came, summer was gone. The sticky, humid air has dissolved into cool stillness with occasional light breezes. Autumn leaves litter the streets and pile up in gutters. I'm returning to Shibusen Academy for my final year. The campus is located in the heart of Death City, sitting ornately atop a hill behind the train station. From a distance, it appears to be a quaint little castle.

Shibusen Academy is an elite private school, an establishment attended by the daughters and sons of diplomats and wealthy businessmen. Most of them English. It is here where we were taught proper manners and our mother tongue. It is also where I developed my passion for literature and received many honors throughout my years.

As I ascend the freshly-scrubbed stone steps of the Academy, I vow to be top of my class again this year. My opponents, especially that nimrod Ox, are coming back strong and motivated, not too fond of having been defeated last year. I must be vigilant.

I have achieved advanced placement in all of my classes, or so it seems, until I attend my English class and realize administration has made an error on my schedule. I politely inform my professor, and he permits me to take it to the front office to get it corrected.

When I get there, the secretary scrutinizes my schedule and tells me everything seems to be in order. I calmly explain to her my English placement was supposed to advance to Survey of World Literature, not Creative Writing, as I have completed the prerequisites for the class. I can see from her blank stare that she doesn't understand, so I politely ask to speak to an administrator. I am shown to the clean and orderly office of the Academy's Head of Counseling: Ms. Yuma Azusa. Notorious for her nerve and independence, she is the target of many criticisms. Many call her a poison to society. I of course hold no such judgement. I admire her audacity.

Proper greetings are exchanged, then I explain my situation to her. She takes a long look at my records to verify my claims, and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose before lowering her stern gaze on me.

"Unfortunately, there is little I can do about this," she explains, "This is a college-level class. Those courses are only offered to the boy's division of the school."

The simplicity of her answer shocks me. I thought for sure she of all people would sympathize. I can't accept this so easily, so I carefully try again.

"I understand. But, is it not possible to make a small exception?" I tip my chin up and level Ms. Azusa with a gaze of my own cool confidence.

She lets out a gentle laugh and shakes her head. "You seem very headstrong for such a young girl, and you are an outstanding student. However, we don't make exceptions to this degree. The Academy has a reputation to uphold, after all. The best you could do right now is take Creative Writing." She says firmly, then she turns to her filing cabinet to restock my records.

"Forgive me, but you seem very headstrong yourself." The words slipped past my lips before I could catch them.

"Pardon?"

Equally surprised by my sudden outburst, I quickly fumble for an explanation. "What I meant was, that, well you seem like you've accomplished quite a bit for your background."

Her brows furrow. "For my background? Is what you're trying to tell me, Miss Albarn, is that my Japanese background puts me at a disadvantage?"

I physically feel as if I've shrunken down to the size of a mouse. I squeak, "No, forgive me Ms. Azusa, that is not at all what I was trying to express. What I was really trying to say, was that, surely you haven't gotten to where you are without some sort of, support of some kind."

The tension in the room strengthens as she glares at me from behind her lenses. "I assure you, I have worked very hard up the ranks, and I did it on my own. You can do so as well, but you would have to work very hard, and not depend on others to grant you leniency. Do you understand, Miss Albarn?"

I bow and thank her for her help. Shamefully, I slump back to class with my head down. This day was supposed to be perfect. Instead, it couldn't have been more awful. When classes are over, I walk with my best friend Tsubaki to her home, where we confide in each other over tea and mochi.

"This is only my second year of French, and our Professor is already having us write a book report!" She exasperates. "Oh, what if I don't pass?"

"Don't worry, I can help you with that. You should have seen what happened to me today. I have to take stupid Creative Writing because the whole academic system is defective. And then the counselor accused me of being racist. It was ridiculous!" I could feel that familiar tension and frustration bubble inside my chest again, rising like steam into my face. I was sure that my cheeks are glowing brightly enough to light the room.

"Oh, Maka." She says sympathetically, "You're the most studious person I know. You really should be allowed to take that class."

"I know. I just wish there was something I could do about it."

I replay the day's events in my head again and cringe. Why did I have to open my big mouth at the counselor's office? Sensing my distress, Tsubaki reaches for the radio and flicks it on. My negative thoughts dissolve as static screeched through the speakers, completely impregnating the space. She effortlessly tuned the dial just right and a male voice chimed through the clearing static.

I idly listen as he reports the continuing uprising between western powers and Japan. I glance up at the radio and frown. People are saying this uprising is bad, worse than the media lets on. They say it will turn into a war before negotiations are met, but this message doesn't faze us at all- this kind of talk has been going on for years. Even if there is a war, it isn't coming here. We live in an international city governed by Great Britain. Besides, we believe if the Japanese do invade, they'll never be able to reach us before being beaten back by our superior naval army.

Ending on a rather ambiguous note, the stations signature jingle interjects, followed by a relaxing orchestra.

I stay for dinner. In a simple, leaf-colored room, we sit on padded cushions around a low-lying wooden table. We are each served small bowls of rice, pickled vegetables, and cucumber salad. Tsubaki's father isn't present and her mother is quite shy, she hardly speaks any English. Her brother Masamune is kind to me and tries to make conversation.

"How was the first day of school?"

"It was well, thank you."

"I've heard you are quite the over achiever. You know, we are thankful Tsubaki has a smart friend like you. You are a good influence on her."

Tsubaki lowers her eyes with a timid smile. She knows she's not the favorite child, even I can see that. In the hierarchy of the Japanese family, her big brother will always be above her. It's probably that reason why her family doesn't seem to mind brushing her aside, or putting her down. I pause and set down my chopsticks.

"And I am fortunate for having a kind and generous friend like Tsubaki." I declare.

"I'm sure it is your kindness that has rubbed off on her. Tell me, are you taking part in any extra curricula?"

"Yes. Actually, we are rejoining the Archery Club." I turn to Tsubaki. "We plan on winning the national tournament this year, don't we?"

She briefly nods as she raises her dainty ceramic cup to take a sip.

"Excellent. We will be the ones cheering the loudest when you do." Her brother easily laughs, and mother nods in agreement.

When we are finished with our vegetables, a pair of servants come out to collect our small empty plates and replace them with polished china are served a beef and potato stew that's flavored with sweet soy, a delicious aroma rises from the pot. I gingerly clinch the noodles with my chopsticks and bring them to my lips. I love Japanese food. It is one of the many great benefits of being Tsubaki's friend. And over the years I have even become accustomed to the traditional Japanese chopsticks.

We slurp down the rest of our meal in comfortable silence and Masamune excuses himself. I thank the Nakatsukasa's for their hospitality once again, and wish them well. Tsubaki receives permission to walk me to the station, and we clear the room for the servants to tidy up.

Outside, the sky is fading and the street lamps are turning on. I can't help but feel a bit apprehensive, because I am always supposed to be home before dark. It's not safe for young ladies to walk the streets so late and unescorted. Nevertheless, we don't rush. I can't make the tram go faster anyway. As I board, we tell each other to get home safely.

* * *

The rest of the week has gone relatively well. I still carry a little disappointment with me as I stroll the campus grounds from class to class, but, I'm still a dedicated student. As life goes on, I will remain focused and continue to study hard in all of my classes- even if I don't particularly like them.

Today, there are no classes, so I lay cozy in my bed well after my regular rising time. I'm suddenly disturbed by the sounds of clinking silverware against china and happy footsteps skipping down the hall. Annoyed, I pull my blankets tightly over my head.

"Maka-damia, wakey wakey!"

Blair, our housekeeper of eight years, lets herself in my bedroom and rips open my curtains. I feel the warmth of the sunlight pouring in.

"Maka, are you awake?" She nudges me. I groan.

"I'm going shopping today. Will you come with me? Please?"

"Will you get out? I'm trying to sleep." I murmur.

"Please, Maka? I can't carry all the bags by myself." She begs.

"Get papa to do it."

"He can't, he just got back from the pub," She pouts. "Please, please, please?" She tears my covers from my grip, destroying my protective little hut. The bright light of day shines harshly on my face. The first thing I see is her round rosy face smiling ear-to-ear, her violet tresses illuminate strands of lavender.

Resistance is futile, so I drag myself out of bed and wash up. Shopping duty has been passed down to me from gran, since she cannot walk as briskly as she used to. So every Sunday, or at least once a week, Blair and I set out to the markets of Death City, with a list of goods we need to collect.

After a long sticky ride on the tram, we arrive at the Shibusen Shopping Complex.

There are a wide variety of shops in the complex. Goods from overseas are easily accessible here. We live in a port city, so there are many foreigners living among us. Numerous shops are spruced up to look exotic and alluring. Red paper lanterns hang outside of Chinese restaurants and antique shops. Displayed in the windows of Luxury boutiques are the latest fashions from Europe. Street vendors station their carts along the sidewalks, selling snacks and refreshments. Bicyclists zoom past, some carrying packages. Peddlers stand among crowds, loudly vocalizing their newest merchandise. Even beggars hunker down against the curb, arms stretched out and palms up. This is a place where people from all different backgrounds gather to exchange money, goods, and ideas. As we pass by the open doors of an Italian restaurant, the aroma of freshly-baked bread surrounds us.

We're searching for a textile shop that carries a specific kind of patterned fabric for gran's seat cushions. Once we find it, we purchase the pattern in the amount instructed, and proceed to navigate through the crowds to find the rest of the items on our list.

I have always found shopping to be exhausting, especially with someone as energetic as Blair. While I love her I find her eccentric ism to become overwhelming. She is always bouncing from shop to shop, from vendor to vendor. I honestly don't know where she gets the energy. The full day of walking on crowded streets, with the relentless sun beating down on us, has me hot, sticky, thirsty, and drop-dead exhausted.

I sit myself down on the first open bench I see. I don't care that it's so dusty that I am for sure dirtying my skirts by sitting. My legs are throbbing, my ribs bruised from the cinching corset, and my back aching from standing so perfectly straight; and so I sit on the filthy bench with the glee of a child who has his pockets stuffed of sweets. I sigh loudly in content as I stretch my body out in the most unladylike of ways. I close my eyes and lean my head back, completely uncaring and wonderfully comfortable, well, almost.

The hustle and bustle of the streets nearly lulls me to sleep. Sleeping on a bench like a man with no work? Yes, papa would surely love to hear that. But suddenly something sings ever so softly through the noise of the street. I strain my ears to catch it again. Quietly, it hummed. It was the sound of a chordophone, I'm sure of it, and it resonate notes to anyone who will listen. It's a sweet melody, light and airy for this hot autumn day, but with a tone of melancholy.

"Hey, Maka-damia!"

I jolted forward as Blair unexpectedly appeared out of seemingly nowhere. I grip my racing heart and glare coldly at the girlishly giggling Blair.

"Are we ready to go yet?" I bite out sourly.

She giggles again, "How about some tea first? And perhaps a snack? I'm feeling rather peckish."

At the mention of food, my stomach gave a howl of agreement. Immediately my face flushed hotly, and nod meekly.

Blair cheers and scoops up both our sacks. Before I can blink, I am dragged down the street by her iron-grip as she chirps about the most perfect place she found.

Half a block later, we come to the place where I heard the music from. It's a quaint little cafe, with flowers blooming outside the windows and tendrils of vines framing the entryway. It's even more adorable inside, with little wooden tables, delicate white tea sets, and floral wallpaper. If it weren't for the city noises outside, I would think we've just stepped into a storybook cottage.

We order tea and indulge ourselves in some sweets. Soon we are giggling and telling stories. I give her news about my academic progress, but that doesn't interest her at all.

"Life is too short for homework or tests!" She says. "What you should really concentrate on is finding your soul mate. Is there anyone you fancy right now?"

It's very much like Blair to bring up subjects of romanticism, but what she should know by now is that I'm not too keen on discussing them.

"No, not really. The only thing I'm really worried about is this one class I'm taking. Its Calculus. I've always been good with math, but this professor moves through everything rather quickly. We can hardly keep up."

She taps her chin, contemplating. Then her eyes light up and she squeals, "I know! You should ask a boy to tutor you! A handsome boy, who is also smart, and who can afford to take you places, like Paris or Rome! Do you know anyone of that sort?"

"No."

She frowns. "Ah, well...don't worry, we'll keep our eyes open!"

We are enjoying the atmosphere of the cafe so much that we order another pot of tea. We're surprised at ourselves that we've haven't found this establishment before, after all, we've shopping here for years. Blair comments on how attractive the pianist in the back is, urging me to look. There, stationed in the far back corner, is a simple grand piano. Behind it sits none other than Solomon Evans, back straight and head down, gingerly fingering the keys, wearing a rather somber expression. I let out a groan.

"What? You don't think he's handsome?"

"No. I mean- I kind of know him."

"Oh. From school?"

"No."

"Oh." She cocks her head in wonderment. "Then who is he?"

"That's Wesley's younger brother."

"Whaaaah?" Blair seemed just as surprised. While the brother's look alike, Solomon Evans is like a ghost. Hiding amongst the shadows, hardly anyone knows of him.

She thrusts herself forward, slightly shaking the table, and stares vigorously. "Ah, I see it now! My god, they look so much alike!"

"Don't be so loud." I whispered. Her high-pitched voice stood out so much that some of the people around us begin to look our way.

"Sorry. What's his name?"

"Solomon." The disdain dripped from my tongue. After all, our last encounter wasn't at all pleasant.

"So-lo-mon?" She echos, unnecessarily testing every syllable. I roll my eyes and give a slight nod, hoping that will be the end of it. But it isn't.

"Should we go say hello then?" She asks eagerly.

"No."

"Why not?" She whined.

"Because," I start, carefully thinking, "He's obviously on duty. I don't think he'd be very happy if we went over and bothered him. It'd make him look unprofessional."

Blair seems satisfied with my answer. "Aw...okay. He's really good, isn't he?"

I give a slight nod and take a big gulp of my tea. He is quite good. Almost comparable to the way Wesley played his instrument. I fondly remember the way he used to cock his head, as he gracefully balanced his violin between his cheek and shoulder, gently stroking the strings with his bow, making beautiful sounds come out with just that simple movement.

It's a long ride home, even though I took a brief nap on the tram. We carry our bags upstairs to our flat. Exhausted, we stack the groceries upright on the kitchen table and plop down on the sofa. Just as we start to relax, gran enters the room, stern and demanding, as always.

"Did you get everything?"

"Yes."

"Let me see."

We pick ourselves up and hobble to the kitchen. I take out the list and one by one, Blair pulls each item out of the two burlap bags. The item gran wants right now is the pack of steel rods. She orders Blair to put the groceries away and make her a cup of tea.

In her workroom, she pulls out the measuring tape and uses it to observe the width my waist, hips, and chest. Then she wraps the tape around her frail knuckles and stares at me, eyes like daggers.

"You've grown quite stout."

Hardly. My waist is roughly 21 inches, the average for any young woman my age. Still, even if I only grow a quarter of a centimeter, I'll pay for it. I remind her that I'm only sixteen, and there's still time for me to grow taller, to stretch out. Her jaw is still clenched with disdain.

Sitting at her working desk, she starts to de-bone my sleeping corset. Ripping open the tiny seams of the channels, and pulling out the flexible, worn-out strands of whalebone. Then she gets the paper bag containing the steel ribs. One by one, she slides them in their sheaths, and stitches them in. This will make the garment tighter and stiffer, and succeed in molding my body into the desired shape.

For a moment, she looks up from her fingering. "You won't be having biscuits with your tea, or anymore sugar for that matter. I won't allow it."

Her new decree has little affect on me. After all, she doesn't watch me every minute. Still, I beg her for forgiveness as I lay on the sofa half-awake. The flickering light of the lantern, along with the sounds of shuffling fabrics and snapping threads lulls me into a dream...

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**Thanks for reading! If you want to read more, please leave a review and let me know what you think!**


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